Maya's Aura: The Charred Coven

by Smith, Skye

  “They are some of her best friends, Ed,” said Maya. “Cut her some slack. It’s the collection from a lifetime’s work as a historian.”

  Ed continued on towards the van. When he returned he was carrying an extra hazmat suit and a mask. He put them on a chair next to Nana, and told she could come back inside, but only if she wore the suit.

  Halfway through the loading of the van, they took a break and ate Maya’s sandwiches. They talked of all sorts of things. The women were all a bit older than her, working on their thesis or whatever, but it was good to be around women near to her own age. Eventually the topic of Maya’s medieval fashion look came up.

  “It’s easy,” said Maya, “cheaper, warmer, more comfortable, and sexier than jeans or sweats, by a long shot. Just get some warm black tights and then wear long tops over them. In the old days they were called jerkins, like you know, Robin Hood.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “There’s really only one fashion rule. Always cover your bum. Otherwise the tights just look like sweats and your bum looks big. Wear any top or skirt that hangs low enough to make a hemline across your legs. A flippy hemline is good. I mean, I’m wearing this long sweater, but I also wear any long coat, or short dress or skirt, or even long shirts. It’s all good so long as you have a hemline across your legs. Never, never, never, show your bum in tights.”

  “So, like where is the look from?” asked one of the women.

  “Vancouver and Seattle. The women there gave up on jeans cause 100% cotton is such a disaster in damp weather. Besides, you have to have a fashion model’s bum to make jeans look dressy. So tell me more about these funguses. What if you have a skin fungus?”

  Ed jumped in, happy not to be talking fashion. “Funguses thrive in acidic conditions. They hate basic conditions. All through history people have bathed in mineral baths, like hot pools, because that reduces the acidity of the skin, which is bad for fungus.”

  “Oh, I get it. Like how the underarm roll-on with aluminum chlorowhatsit, like totally cures wasp stings,” said Maya.

  “You know about that roll-on?” said the woman rubbing shoulders with Ed. “We only just put that in our union magazine. Not stings, but to help with skin problems like athlete's foot. It lowers the acidity of the skin so that fungus doesn’t spread. I guess it would work on stings. Most of nature's poisons are acids.”

  Ed looked over just in time to field a concerned look from Nana.

  “Don’t worry, Nana,” he said calmly, “we have a vacuum cleaner with a very long hose. After we finish loading the books, we’ll put the unit outside and only bring the hose inside. By the end of it most of the dust will be gone from your cottage.”

  “Thanks Ed,” replied Nana, still looking worried, “I didn’t realize the dust was so dangerous.”

  “No problem. We are ahead of schedule because I was able to import your book list into my laptop. So far, so good. Some of the books are write offs, but most of them are in reasonable shape. Surprising since they were kept in a cottage on an island. I was expecting more damp problems.”

  “The cottage is a hundred years old,” said Nana. “It was built before they sealed walls with plastic. There are lots of air leaks to keep the cottage fresh and dry.”

  “Yeah, lots of air leaks,” Maya said, “like, talk about drafty. When you wake up in the morning it's just like tent camping. You know the game. Can you hold your first pee long enough that the room warms up before you leave the bed.”

  “Drafty is not all bad. Not when the alternative is getting as sick as a librarian,” Ed said. “What preservative did you use on these books, Nana?”

  “With the older books, pre-1900, we just used ant dust for the bugs. Because of the acid in the paper of the newer books we used a mixture of French chalk, talc, and ant dust,” the old woman said nervously. ‘I should never have sold my books’ was the thought that kept going through her head. “Lately I switched from ant dust to aspartame, you know, the sweetener they use in soda pop. It works even better than the insecticides.”

  “That’s good to know, thanks. So, nothing more poisonous?” asked Ed making a note of it.

  “Aspartame is pretty powerful. If people ever saw how fast it gets rid of ants, they’d never drink soda pop,” Nana said. “Of course, I can’t say what the previous owners of the books used.”

  There was quiet while Maya poured some hot tea. Once Ed had his cup in his hands, warming them, he asked, “So what now, Nana? Was this the first step to moving off the island?”

  “Yes, it’s time for the old farts' home,” mumbled Nana.

  “Hey,” said Ed, “they can be really nice. My grandmother just moved into one in Cambridge to be close to me. She has a one-bedroom apartment. Not much of a kitchen, mind you. They don’t really want the folk cooking in their apartments, you know, fire risk. It’s like a luxury hotel suite.”

  “You think it's nice, but how does she like it?” asked Nana.

  “Oh, well, she likes the apartment, and she likes being close to me, but she sort of doesn’t fit in with the other folks.”

  “Filled with old cripples and half-wits. I’ve looked at some places like that with my grandson. No, thank you,” replied Nana.

  “Actually, it’s the other way around. There are a lot of aging eggheads in the place, you know, being so close to Harvard. In her words, she would rather have a quilting club than argue the merits of some philosophy.”

  “Do you remember the name of the place?” asked Maya.

  “Wait,” Ed fumbled with a hand down his hazmat suit to find his wallet, “I have their card for emergencies.” He opened the wallet and handed a card to Nana.

  She looked at the card and said, “I suppose they have a long waiting list.”

  “Not so bad. It’s not cheap even with the state kicking in some,” said Ed.

  * * * * *

  Ed had cut short the vacuuming and cleaning, because Joseph was nagging him to get off the island before the wind came up and forced them to stay. As it was, there were whitecaps building by the time the big diesels backed the landing barge off the beach. After waving them away, Maya left Nana and ran up to the cottage and threw open all of the windows and doors, and then built up the fire in the Franklin.

  “What are you doing, child?” Nana asked when she finally got back up to the cottage.

  “Whatever they didn’t get with their vacuum cleaner, the wind will blow away. Don’t worry, I'll close up again before any rain starts. Why don’t you get into bed and stay warm?” Maya suggested. “So now what? They have the books and you haven’t settled on a price yet. What's next?”

  “They will send me back our list with their own evaluations of each book. The valuable ones within the week. They are in a hurry to get the money spent before there are any more cutbacks. Then I will have to argue and bargain over the prices. That could take months."

  “So, will you hold any of the books back?”

  “Only if they refuse to scan some of them. I can’t see them refusing. Scanning them is in their interest and in the interest of the books.”

  They cuddled on the bed until a huge gust of wind hit the cottage and more than one window rattled loudly. The gust was followed by the unmistakable sound of hail on the metal patches on the roof. Maya ran around the windward side of the cottage closing everything, and then did the rest. She slowly walked around the great room finger testing for dust, especially around where the books had been stacked. There was almost none.

  She spent the next hour damp mopping anywhere that failed the finger test. With the windows now closed the cottage was warming up and Nana was trying to help. Maya fitted her out with a sponge and some diluted window cleaner and had her clean all the food surfaces like counters and tables.

  “That Ed is a nice man,” chatted Nana.

  “I think he is taken, very taken,” replied Maya.

  “Then why was he always staring at you? Besides the fact that you showed him up with your truck-driving.�
�

  “Maybe to make her clutch him even closer. At least someone will get laid tonight,” Maya moaned.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  MAYA'S AURA - The Charred Coven by Skye Smith

  Chapter 10 - Strange Dreams

  The storm raged across Easter week. Nana treated Maya to a very Anglo-Frisian Easter, which was almost indistinguishable from the Danish variety.

  “Oh dear,” Nana said, knocking back a shot of Advocaat. “If I move into Boston I will have no excuse not to spend Christmas with Rob and his wife. Her idea of Christmas is that it begins the day after Thanksgiving and ends on Christmas day. 'I shop therefore I am'.”

  “Speaking of Rob,” Maya replied, knocking back her own drink, “you do realize that he is being crushed by his mortgage and house costs, and works long hours to keep up all his payments.”

  “That’s all HER doing," Nana said in a bitter voice. "I gave them the family house. It was a nice three-bedroom house in a good neighborhood. Not good enough for her, though. It didn’t have a thousand square foot walk-in closet with attached bedroom. My old house only covered the down payment of that McMansion they live in.”

  “You gave him your house?” Maya said in shock. She had grown up in a renovated miner’s cabin with a leaky roof that last year she had paid the taxes on, so the county wouldn’t grab it.

  “When your grandmother died, he was the only one in town who needed a house. It should have given him a boost towards saving for retirement. Instead SHE spent it all.” Again there was bitterness in Nana’s voice. “She wants it all, and she wants it all now. No such thing as a lightly-used minivan for her and the kids. No, no, no. She has to drive a brand new SUV.”

  “Sounds pretty normal to me,” said Maya. “The rich get richer, the middleclass are in debt up to their eyeballs trying to look rich, and the young people are working in coffee shops and living in basement suites.” 'Just like me', she thought, rebelliously.

  “Welcome to America,” said the old historian, “it is our nature to reach for the imported caviar by standing on the shoulders of the poor.”

  “You’re one to talk, with a million dollar painting in your cellar,” whispered Maya.

  “Child, we worked a lifetime and most of our wealth was stored in our three-bedroom house and this summer cottage. Yes, the books, scrolls, and paintings became valuable, but that was not planned by us. Fear of inflation has made them valuable to others as collector pieces. To us they were just the tools of our trade.”

  Maya was going to say something, but Nana wasn’t finished. She had seen the flash of bitterness in Maya's face. “And for your information, I offered this cottage to your mother, and she said no. She likes it better in Mendocino.”

  Maya had the grace to look a little abashed. She coughed and mumbled quickly, "Um, so what will happen to the cottage, and the painting, and stuff, you know, after you, uh...”

  “Once I move out, I will put it all into a family trust, not to be sold unless there is a need that all of you agree on,” Nana then looked at the face of her great- grand daughter and added with a twinkle, “well, maybe not the painting.”

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  Something woke Nana. The bedside clock said 2 am and yet there was light. She rolled over to check on Maya. Maya was propped up on her pillows with a small light belted to her forehead but her eyes were closed. On her lap were some of the old letters of their ancestors Britta and Jon. Beside her was the translation of the Tibetan aura user manual. Around her neck was the locket with the miniature portrait of Britta.

  Maya was softly mumbling. Nana rolled closer to her so she could hear the words. It was not Maya's voice, or at least it was not Maya's words. They were words from long ago. A strange accent and a strange grammar and a strange lilt. She pinched herself to keep awake and listen carefully.

  The mumbling continued for many minutes. Nana tried to memorize the individual words for they made little sense as sentences. Then the mumbling became louder, with panic in it and Maya began to thrash. Nana shook her awake. "You were dreaming, child. A nightmare. Do you remember it?"

  "Some faces, some names, clothes from long ago. Who is John Brown - err, was John Brown?"

  "Not now, child. Put the papers aside and turn off your light. You need sleep."

  * * * * *

  Over egg on toast for breakfast, Maya asked again, "So who was John Brown?"

  "There have been many John Browns," replied Nana. "Can you give me a clue as to which?"

  "Last night I was reading my aura user manual. It was the page about how Tibetan monasteries search for, and identify the reincarnation of their religious leaders, you know, like their Rinpoches. The new reincarnation remembers the touch of important possessions from past reincarnations.

  That is why I was wearing Britta's miniature while I read her letters. Just to see, just to make them more real. I fell asleep because her sentences are so hard to read, I mean, to understand. The language was so different then."

  "Ahh, then show me the letters you were reading. That will tell me which John Brown," smiled Nana as she poured them more tea. After putting the pot down and putting on some white cotton gloves, she picked up the old letters that Maya was pointing to. She took a deep breath to put her mind into 18th century English mode and began to read.

  Nana was quiet for many minutes, which gave Maya a chance to finish her toast and open Nana's laptop. Google would tell her all.

  "But child. None of these letters mention a John Brown. Where did his name come from?"

  "From terror, Nana. I was terrified of him. But it was not me. I was feeling the terror and watching the terror. It was a very strange dream."

  "Instead of Google, bring up Wikipedia. Search for John Brown Gaspee." Nana put the letters out of harm's way and removed her gloves. "Did you find him?" She shuffled her chair closer to Maya's so she could see the screen. "That's him. 1736 to 1803. The richest man in Providence, Rhode Island. Slaver, smuggler, privateer, pirate, black marketeer, drug-lord, war-lord, crime-lord, and respected American politician. A rogue male who led companies of rogue males. You were right to fear him."

  "So what was he to Britta? For like, it was her fear I was feeling. I'm sure of it."

  "Well, I only know what is in these letters. Amongst other things he gave this island to her. It's how it came into our family. It was one of his smuggling staging areas, but when Massachusetts, well, shall we say banished him, he sold it to Britta for a dollar."

  "He gave her this island and yet she feared him so. That doesn't make sense," pondered Maya.

  "Don't read too much into the gift, child. This island would have been almost worthless two hundred years ago. We would know more if we could find her diary," replied Nana. "Her other letters mention a diary, but after years of searching for it, we found no trace. My own best guess is that she hid it somewhere on this island. This is where she lived when she got old, like me."

  Maya looked up with bright eyes. "We must find it. If these letters give me strange dreams, then what would her diary do? We must find it." She reached for her smart phone and turned it on. It immediately nagged her about how many messages were waiting for her and how many calls she had missed. She ignored them and scrolled to her phone book and found the number she wanted. It rang. It was answered almost immediately.

  "Hi, Chris, it's Maya.

  Well, thank you.

  Are you still filming in Vermont?

  Yesterday, so you are finished. Umm, are you still in Vermont?

  Oh good. Chris, I need you.

  Don't be naughty. You're a married man.

  Do you have your metal detector with you?

  Oh, good,

  Yes, I have lost something.

  Oh thank you, Chris. You're an angel.

  I'm going to hand you over to my great-grandmother and she will tell you how to get here."

  Maya listened while Nana gave him directions to the closest marina on the peni
nsula. Once she hung up she turned to her and asked, "So who is this Chris? We went all over this island with a metal detector over thirty years ago and found nothing."

  "Yeah, well tell that story to Chris. He loves stories about the old-fashioned Radio Shack metal detectors." She smiled as she thought about Chris. He looked like a rough biker but he was salt of the earth. "He works on my movie sets as security as well as some stunt work, but his real passion is finding lost valuables for people. He has a website called Thingfinders and travels all over the world. When did he say he could be here?"

  "Tomorrow before lunch. I told him to phone you when he was on the other side and you would pick him up," said Nana. "So you had better not turn off that fancy phone of yours."

  Poor Maya spent the rest of the day dealing with the build-up of messages and missed calls. She hated being connected. Life was so much simpler without the bloody phone. So much more 'here and now'.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  Chris walked back and forth and around the cottage. In his black leather vest he did look a lot like a biker. Maya brought him the biggest mug she could find filled with strong coffee. Nana sat on a bench leaning against the cottage wall, watching him pace.

  "You say the diary would have been hidden in about 1800. Was this cottage here then?" Chris asked Nana.

  "No. The chimney was here, but this cottage is new. Built in about 1900 by my grandfather," replied Nana.

  Chris laughed aloud at the thought of how 'new' this cottage was. "So, where was the original cottage?"

  "Well, the chimney is original. I was always told that the old and new cottages shared the chimney until the old cottage blew down, so it must have been right where you are standing."

  Nana watched Chris kick at the soil. Then he took Nana's tiny lady's spade and started pounding it into the soil inch by inch until the sound of it hitting the soil changed. Within a half hour he had marked out his best guess at the location of the foundation of the old cottage.